The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  “Please, darling, please, I can explain—” his “wife” sobbed.

  Darzin hit her a third time, a punch to the face that bloodied his own knuckles and would have likely broken her jaw if she had been any mortal woman. Alshena fell to the floor, sobbing and gasping for breath. She pleaded, cried, begged for forgiveness.

  Her performance was flawless.

  “Stop it!” Kihrin screamed. “You want to hurt someone, hurt me. You like that well enough!” The boy twisted at the silk holding his wrist, but his anger and struggling bound the silk into a tighter, stronger twisted vine. The more he pulled, the harder the knot resisted.

  “Time for your next lesson, son,” Darzin hissed. “No one takes what is mine. I’ll kill her before I see her in the arms of another man.” He raised his sword and hoped Kihrin would call his bluff. He could pretend to kill Talon easily enough, but he wasn’t ready.

  “NO!” Kihrin screamed. “Please Father. It’s not her fault. It’s mine. I did this! I raped her.”

  Darzin paused.

  Kihrin repeated, “I raped her. I was drunk and I . . . got carried away.”

  There was a long silence as both men focused on Kihrin’s wrist, still tied to the trunk of one of the trees. The Lord Heir raised an eyebrow and pointedly stared at Kihrin.

  The room was quiet, even the sound of Alshena’s crying muffled by her hands.

  Kihrin stared at his wrist and sighed. “That, uh . . . that would have gone better if I wasn’t still tied up, wouldn’t it?”

  Darzin smiled. “Yes. Yes, probably.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought too.”

  “As bloodied as she is, there’s a good chance I would have believed you,” Darzin pointed out.

  “Ah. Well, good to know if I ever feel like framing myself for rape.” The young man’s eyes were filled with self-loathing and pleading desperation. “Please don’t kill her, Father. I’ll do anything you want.”

  Darzin stared at his so-called son. He contemplated asking for the necklace right there. It’s possible the boy might agree, just to save Alshena’s life. An even more delicious irony, since the boy was only here because of the real Alshena’s sacrifice to Xaltorath. But what was a one-night affair to a youth who had drunk deep from the cup of decadence? The boy had been so rough on her. His tastes were not those of a novice, but of the hardened libertine.

  Kihrin was, like Darzin himself, hard on his toys.

  He could not take the chance. When Darzin made his move, there could be no doubt and no options for Kihrin—no way out.

  Darzin knelt over Alshena, who cringed away from him. “Get back to our rooms, bitch. If I ever catch you doing this again, or if anyone ever finds out about this, I’ll have my men sew shut that greedy cunt of yours for good.” He slapped her one more time to make sure she understood.

  Alshena nodded her blood-smeared face and crawled to the door like an injured animal, whimpering and leaving bloody tracks in her wake. Darzin watched her for a moment, a slight smile on his lips, before he turned back to Kihrin. The boy was trying to untie the taut silk knot around his wrist.

  “I used to know a nobleman who had the legs of his wife amputated. Said it was like clipping the wings from a parrot—it kept her from flying away.” Darzin walked over to the table and poured himself a glass of water. “Said she didn’t need to walk for what he wanted her for anyway.”

  “That’s sick,” Kihrin hissed.

  “No, it was stupid,” Darzin corrected. “He bled to death in bed one night when she bit off his testicles. Everyone has their limits. Break a slave, yes. Make sure they know their place, absolutely. But only a fool pushes a slave so far they have nothing to lose by killing their master—and then gives them opportunity to do just that.”

  “I thought we were talking about wives.”

  “Just between you and me, there’s not much difference.” Darzin sheathed his sword. He slid a dagger out of his boot and threw it. The blade sank into the wood of the tree, severing the silk scarf holding Kihrin tight.

  The boy rubbed the skin of his wrist, scraped raw in the struggle to free himself. He looked at Darzin with suspicion in his eyes. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”

  Darzin feigned surprise. “Angry at you? Gods above, boy, I’m proud of you.”

  His “son” stared at him in horror.

  Darzin bit down on the urge to laugh and continued with an expansive wave of his hand. “Why, this was very well done. Sleeping with another man’s wife is a mark of pride and distinction—for everyone but the other man, of course. You are finally starting to act like a royal. Any other woman and I would have been patting you on the back and complimenting your technique. You bypassed many of the common blunders—for instance, you weren’t in her rooms, thus greatly lessening the chance, under normal circumstances, that her husband would walk in. And those little love marks you left on her—even if her husband never found out who did it, he would know she had been raped or seduced. Either way it’s a black mark on his honor.” He paused. “The bondage was an odd choice. Was that my wife’s suggestion?”

  Kihrin shook his head. “Mine.”

  “Why?”

  The boy shrugged. “I like it that way sometimes.”

  “Huh. Everyone has their tastes, I suppose, but I recommend you stamp down on that fetish. It’s never a good idea to leave yourself vulnerable. Tie your partner up. Don’t let them do it to you.” Darzin sipped his water for a moment while his son picked himself out of bed. “Speaking of which, I see we run to similar tastes in our women. Not so surprising, but you should take some basic precautions.”

  Kihrin’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not an idiot. I have a ring from a Blue House . . .”

  Darzin rolled his eyes. “I meant about not killing them.”

  The horror returned to the young man’s eyes. “Killing—!”

  “I saw what you did to Alshena. Now, her tastes run rough herself, and I’m sure she was goading you on every inch of the way. But don’t try to deny you have a dark streak in you, that you don’t enjoy the pain as much as the pleasure.”

  Kihrin turned away. “No! I—” But the denial seemed to stick in the boy’s throat.

  “You can find yourself in trouble if you go too far,” Darzin told his son kindly. “I know. I’ve been there myself. It can be a real dilemma. Be gentle with other men’s wives and save your true passions for the slave girls. Nobody cares what happens to them. You know—I will even do you a favor. I have a batch of slaves I’m sending off to the Octagon for resale this afternoon. Most of them are a bit threadbare, but only by my standards—the girls are lovely and well trained. I’ll give you a couple. You can take your pick.”

  The boy looked up at him with eyes so full of equal parts hope and despair Darzin almost laughed out loud. Really, the lad made it too easy.

  Then those blue eyes hardened to ice, and Kihrin said: “Other men’s castoffs don’t interest me, Father. Only other men’s wives.”

  Darzin was torn between the desire to laugh and the desire to hit him. Kihrin was such a little—

  Such a D’Mon. So much like Darzin himself that he sometimes thought he was looking in a mirror. No, he corrected himself. Not like me. Like Pedron. Like Pedron reborn. For a moment, Darzin found himself chilled. He almost shuddered, and instead pushed dark memories from his mind.

  Darzin smiled. “Suit yourself. You seem to prefer learning things the hard way.” Darzin walked to the door, sidestepping the small puddle of blood.* “Oh,” he said as he paused at the door. “It should go without saying, but I’ll do so anyway: touch Alshena again and I won’t kill you, I’ll kill her.” He grinned. “It’s about time I traded in for a younger wife anyway, so I’d love the excuse.”

  He left his son like that, looking after him with eyes as flat and cold as the still surface of a distant lake.

  Just like Pedron. He would have to be careful with that boy.

  Dark streak indeed.

  53: SPEED TRAINING<
br />
  (Kihrin’s story)

  I returned to training with Doc. Seasons followed each other in quick succession while I lived and died a thousand times in illusions crafted by Chainbreaker. All the while I tried and failed to find a way past the Old Man. I understood now that he didn’t have to kill me, but offered a threat worse than death. No matter how much progress I made under Doc’s tutelage, no sword would free me from the dragon.*

  “If only I was better at magic,” I whined to Tyentso one day as we both ate lunch. I rarely saw her outside of meals anymore: my lessons with her had faded even as Doc’s had increased. “I have no damn talent at all.”

  Tyentso snorted. “If that were true, you’d never have seen past the First Veil, Scamp. Most poor fools never do.”

  A year on Ynisthana had been kind to Tyentso. Her skin had lost the leathery texture it possessed from years at sea. Her hair, no longer cracked and dry from the salt spray, hung lustrous and shiny. She’d put on weight from an island routine that encouraged her to eat regular meals, and muscle from the heavy exercise. Her face had a blush of color that had been missing when she served on The Misery.

  True, her nose was still sharp enough to cut a man and her chin was a spear point, but the creases on her forehead were mostly gone. I think no one had been as surprised by the transformation as Tyentso herself. She was bemused to find her company sought out by members of the Brotherhood for something other than study.

  “I know one spell. One! And it doesn’t work on the Old Man. I’ve tried. He can still see me.”

  Tyentso swirled her spoon in her bowl, frowning. “Magic isn’t just a matter of memorization, Scamp. You have to change how you see, change how you think. You are forcing your will on the universe. Not one in a thousand people can cast the simplest spell.” She let her spoon fall into the bowl. “Anyway, dragons aren’t creatures who know magic, they are magic. Worse, they are magical chaos vortexes. It would be difficult to use magic to fool one.”

  “Doc did it.”

  “Doc is using an artifact. Yours would work on him too, you just wouldn’t like the result.”

  “If you’re trying to cheer me up, Ty, you’re doing a lousy job of it.” I pushed my bowl away. “How did you learn? Did it take you years of staring at a candle or trying to make a leaf move?”

  To my surprise, Tyentso blanched, took a deep breath, and looked away. “No.”

  “Well? What then?”

  She stood up. “It wouldn’t work for you, Scamp. I don’t recommend it.”

  I cocked my head in surprise. In all the time I’d known Tyentso, she’d never dismissed a question with no explanation. She never shut me down without an involved lecture on why I was being stupid.

  I grabbed the edge of her chemise. “Ty, what did I say?”

  She snatched the fabric away from me and opened her mouth to snap a reply. She closed it again. “Leave it be,” she said, her voice sounding tired.

  Tyentso picked up her dish and carried it to the kitchen for cleaning.

  A week later, Tyentso showed up at my room after dark. It wasn’t like that. In point of fact, I had a vané woman named Lonorin with me, whom Tyentso shoved out with a firm and impolite hand.

  “So, you decided you like those pretty vané flowers sprinkled on your bed after all, have you?”

  I sighed and threw a bedspread around me. “I thought we’d established I’m not your type, Tyentso.”

  “Not only are you not my type but you’re young enough to be my son, which is a terrifying prospect. These vané immortals may not have any standards, but I sure as hell do.” Tyentso lifted a basket covered with a black cloth. “Anyway, I brought tea. I promise it’s not drugged.”

  “If you wanted to kill me, you had plenty more opportunities before this.” I motioned her over to the small reed table and chairs beside the mattress. “To what do I owe the visit then? It’s a little late and I’m a little naked.”

  “I know a way to break past your magical block.”

  I tilted my head. “Okay . . . I’m listening.”

  She pulled the teapot and several cups out of the basket. “The problem is that it’s dangerous. Not to mention gods-awful unpleasant. And I wouldn’t have offered at all, but . . .” She winced as she poured the tea. “I won’t lie, Scamp, I feel bad about your gaesh.”

  I chuckled and reached for the tea. “You must have gaeshed a thousand people in your life, Ty.”

  “But I didn’t know it couldn’t be reversed. And I sure as hell didn’t know that when you finally die and travel past the Second Veil, the gaesh will pull you toward Hell.”

  I froze, felt a shudder run over my body. “What?”

  She scowled. “When you finally die, you’re not going to the Land of Peace. No one who’s gaeshed does, apparently. I finally understand what the demons get out of it and why they ever agreed to allow us to summon them.”

  I stared at her until her cheeks turned red, she cursed, and turned away. “Damn it all, I didn’t know! I knew damage to the upper soul could interfere with passage to Thaena’s realm, but I didn’t think a gaesh caused that kind of harm. You think the demons stop to give mortals a full lecture on what happens to the souls of those they gaesh for us? That every soul taken is a chance for them to add to their power? Not a chance. I found out here—it’s not taught at the Academy.”*

  I fought to swallow back my nausea. I hadn’t put the pieces together, hadn’t realized what a gaesh could mean. This would make it easier for Xaltorath to claim me, later. Not even death would free me. I felt the same sense of claustrophobia, the same itchy, ugly feeling of being cornered and caged, that I’d felt when the Old Man had shown me the poor souls kept in his “garden.”

  “So . . .” I drained my cup of tea, set it back down in front of Tyentso. “Why do you think you can teach me magic now, when you haven’t been able to before this?”

  She examined her fingers for several long, tense seconds before she looked up. “The dirtiest, nastiest part about learning sorcery is that words aren’t enough. Learning to cast a spell isn’t a matter of memorizing charts, reciting formula, or drawing little glyphs on the floor. Magic is about teaching someone the right way to think. No language, not even the old voras tongues, can describe the precise patterns of thought, the mappings of consciousness, necessary to cast the simplest spell.”

  I swallowed and leaned back. “Okay. So . . . I’m back to my original question. How are you going to teach me?”

  Tyentso’s eyes brightened as she lifted her chin. “By making you learn the same way I did: mind to mind. You’re going to have a ghost possess you, and then I will—”

  “Hold on there.” I straightened. “I’m going to what?”

  Tyentso cleared her throat. “A ghost. A ghost will possess you, and while doing so, the two of you will be in close mental contact. It should be enough so you can intuitively grasp the spellcasting process. It worked for me. I see no reason why it wouldn’t work for you.”

  I swallowed hard. “Let me get this straight. You want me to let a ghost take possession of my body and teach me magic. Assuming that would even work, and assuming I’m crazy enough and desperate enough to agree, where are we going to find a ghost sorcerer?”

  Tyentso raised her hand. “Me. I’m going to be the ghost.”

  54: THE CARRIAGE RIDE

  (Talon’s story)

  “I’m not running away! I just need a carriage. Go ask the High Lord—” Kihrin D’Mon’s angry tone echoed clearly through the stable courtyard. He was red-faced, and looked like he might jump up and down in frustration at any moment.

  “Is there a problem?” Tishar D’Mon asked as she walked down the steps. She motioned to one of the grooms. “My carriage, please.”

  The Lord Heir’s newest son paused in the middle of his argument with the stable master, who stepped around Kihrin and bowed to Tishar. “My lady, I am under strict orders not to allow the young man to leave the grounds without an escort.”

 
“Ah,” Tishar said. “Well that’s not a problem at all then, but thank you for watching out for him.” She held out her hand to Kihrin. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Shall we?”

  The young man caught on quickly. He bowed over her hand before releasing it to her again. “It’s my fault, Aunt Tishar. I should have mentioned I was waiting for you.”

  “See Hosun?” Tishar smiled at the stable master. She’d known Hosun since he was a small boy with a fascination for horses, apprenticed to the old stable master. She’d fooled him not at all, but Hosun would play along anyway.

  “Of course, my lady,” Hosun said with a dry smile and a bow. He turned back to the stable. “My lady’s coach!”

  Kihrin exhaled as the stable master walked away. “Thank you,” he whispered to her.

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered back. “And where are we going today?”

  “The Octagon?”

  The answer surprised her. “It’s nothing worth seeing, my dear. Just a lot of miserable souls and the vultures circling their misfortune.”

  “Please.” There was so much emotion trapped in that single word she half-expected the boy to fall to his knees.

  She gave him a thoughtful look. He was clean and properly dressed, but little details gave away his hurry: the way his hair had been pulled back into a gold clasp, the bruising on his wrist that someone had neglected to treat by salve or healer.

  Her examination was interrupted by Hosun returning with the carriage.

  “Where did you get that?” Kihrin’s jaw dropped open. He stared at the transport with undisguised wonder.

  Tishar smiled. Her own reaction had been much the same when she had first seen her carriage, over a quarter-century earlier. The carriage was as much jewelry as transport, an artisan crafting of rare dark woods and jeweled accents that left no question of the royal nature of its passengers. The enchantments that magically created a smooth ride over any surface were far costlier than all the gold and precious stones decorating it. Many had offered to buy it over the years, and as many had tried to claim it through machinations.